Funny how I didn’t think I had enough of Reed’s story in me to write a manuscript, yet I feel compelled to write her story constantly.  I’m up to over 10,000 words with her now.  Maybe there really is a manuscript there.  For now though, I like writing her here.

If you need to get caught up, here are the links for Parts 1-6: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 and Part 6.

I hate Mondays.  Getting up after sleeping in for two days, going back to work, staring at the long week ahead…Monday has no redeeming qualities.

This Monday also marks the fourth day with no call from Chris.  But who’s counting?

Why do men ask for your number if they’re not going to call?  A guy friend once told me it’s either to make the woman feel good about herself or for the guy to prove to himself that he can get it.  Seriously?  As for the former, I’m damn good catch and I don’t need some guy to ask for my number to prove that to me.  In terms of the latter, find some other way to bolster your weak ego and quit wasting my time.

I closed a multi-million acquisition for a client today, so I think a celebration is in order.  Staring into the contents of my refrigerator I have a tough decision to make.  Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio? 

My old buddy Chardonnay is always a safe bet.  I pull a glass from the cabinet and pour the cool, golden liquid.  Taking a small sip, I immediately feel my nerves ease.  Who cares if that loser calls?  Not this girl.

After all, there are hundreds of men just waiting to hear from me on eMatch.  Despite my lack of luck so far, I have an urge to go glimpse through pictures.  It’s like online shopping, and I love to shop.

Logging in, I wait for the mailbox to reveal how many messages have arrived since my last visit.  After I met Chris, I completely forgot about eMatch.  Surely after four days of not checking it I must have mail from some eligible bachelors.

Sure enough, there are seven new messages.  I scan the pictures and decide to open Jason from Marietta first. Continue reading »

If you need to get caught up, here are the links for Parts 1-4: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 and Part 5.

Aubrey calls on my way home.  I answer hoping she wants to go grab a drink, and thankfully she does.  She forces me to recount my date with Peter as we both drive towards our favorite bar.    

“He took you to the St. Regis?” She’s squealing with delight. Miss Delilah taught her to enjoy the finer things in life. Especially when they’re paid for by handsome gentlemen.

“Yes, and don’t get so excited. It was perfectly awful.”

“Reed,” she said in a disapproving tone that sounded eerily like Miss Delilah, “Did you even give the poor boy a chance?”

Thankfully I could roll my eyes in the privacy of my own car without notice. “Yes, Aubrey, I gave him a chance Know what he did with it? Proceeded to tell me how well off he is and all the money he’d spend on me.”

“Oh yeah, that just sounds terrible,” she said in mock disgust. Giggling, she said, “What’s wrong with being treated like a princess now and then?”

“Because it’s one thing to treat a woman well and surprise her with little presents now and then like Nate does with you, but it’s another thing to lead with ‘Hey, guess how much money I have?’ on a first date.”

“That is a little tacky,” she concedes.

“Have you been to the St. Regis?  I swear I felt like I was in a bad black and white movie.  The servers wear old school flight attendant outfits!”

Aubrey’s easy giggle fills my otherwise silent car as I speed down Peachtree.  “Really?  It sounds kinda fun.”

“Trust me, there was nothing fun about it.”  I signal to turn onto the side street that runs beside the little bar we’ve frequented since college.  “Enough about my pathetic dating life.  What does it feel like to be someone’s fiance?”

More giggles.  I can picture her holding her hand out to admire the ring again.  “It’s wonderful!  Nate says I can have the wedding anywhere I want, that he’d marry me in burlap sacks in Cambodia if I wanted.  He’s so silly.  I think I’m leaning towards the Botanical Gardens.  What do you think?”

“I think you’ll look beautiful anywhere you get married,” I say, meaning it.  Aubrey has classic good looks.  Her hair is always done, her makeup lightly applied and flawless.  She has porcelain skin she keeps shielded from the sun with ridiculously big hats when we go to the beach.  Nate is right; she’d be a knockout in burlap. Continue reading »

If you need to get caught up, here are the links for Parts 1-4: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

I turn around in front of my floor length mirror.  This dress fit a few months ago.  It must have shrunk when I washed it.  Either that or the half gallon of ice cream I had the other night is creeping onto my backside.

I crane my neck around to get a good look.  There’s a hint of Kim Kardashian back there.  I realize men appreciate her assets, so to speak, but it’s a little much for a first date.

I shrug at my reflection and decide I don’t really care if the dress is too tight.  Another evening I’ll probably be wasting with some loser from the internet. 

This time it’s Peter, the commercial real estate broker Aubrey found the first night.  She’s convinced that because we’re both diehard Florida Gator fans, we’ll instantly click.  I’m skeptical, at best. 

Best case scenario, he’s tolerable and I can drag him to Aubrey’s upcoming engagement party.  I’m pretty sure I’m the only single friend she has, and I can’t stomach the idea of a night in coupledom alone while they all try to fix me up with their second cousin who lives in his mother’s basement (but only because he quit his job as a stockbroker to pursue his dream of becoming a rock star).

Peter is meeting me at The St. Regis Bar in Buckhead.  Normally, I would be sketched out by having our first date at a hotel bar, but this one is a seen-and-be-seen kind of place.  A little glitzy for my taste, but it was his suggestion since he lives nearby.  Besides, it’s a bar; how bad could it be?

As I exit my car at the valet stand, I notice Peter waiting by the massive gold front doors.  He smiles when he sees me, and I give a little wave as I approach him. Continue reading »

Reed keeps coming to me, which is obnoxious since she’s not a character in either of my manuscripts.  Oh well, no sense fighting it. 

If you need to catch up:

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3

I awake to a pounding in my head, no doubt caused by the bottle of Chardonnay I nearly polished off last night in front of the computer.  Grunting, I roll over try to bury my head in the mounds of down comforter that surround me. 

I swear I can almost hear the thudding, like someone tapping on my brain. 

Shit, it’s not in my head.  It’s at my front door.  Someone is knocking on my door at – I glance towards the clock and struggle to make out blurry numbers – 10:15 on a Saturday morning.  What the hell kind of idiot knocks on doors on the weekend when normal people are trying to sleep off a hangover? Continue reading »

You can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

I throw my keys on the counter, dump my purse next to them, and head straight to the fridge.  I don’t normally drink alone, but after a date like that I think I deserve (and need) a glass of wine.

I grab the whole bottle and snag a glass from the cabinet, toting it all to my home office. Pouring a glass, I wait for my computer to start. I’m canceling that online dating membership right now. Immediately.

As my eyes scan the page for the Account Settings button, a new message lights up the mailbox at the top of the screen.  I pause.

I shake my head, as if I can dislodge the thought.  Nope, I’m not opening it.  Now where is the stupid Account Settings button?

After answering questions about why I’m cancelling (No, I did not find someone; Yes, I can afford the membership; No, I will not continue for a discounted price), I hover on the Submit Cancellation button. 

The little flag on the mailbox at the top of the screen beckons.  Open me, it says.  The man of your dreams might be inside.

It doesn’t hurt to look, right?  So what if this is the second time I’ve let a stupid cartoon mailbox interrupt my cancellation. 

I concede it’s probably the wine talking, but throwing caution (and good sense) to the wind, I open the mailbox. 

Tad the television producer stares back at me, pearly whites and brown frat-boy hair.  It’s that slightly shaggy, swept over one side of the forehead look that every frat boy in the South sports.  Just a tad…I almost snort Chardonnay I giggle so hard.  I bet he was the butt of a lot of jokes as a kid with a name like Tad. 

I study the picture again.  Oh yeah, his hair.  Just a little (not a tad, giggling again) too long to be called clean cut, but not surfer long. 

The next picture reveals a dog named Shea.  As in Shea Stadium?  Now we’re talking!  Any guy who likes baseball can’t be all bad.

Shit, except a Mets fan.  I’m deflated.  Would I rather have a guy who hates baseball or is a Mets fan?  I’m not going to lie, that’s a tough one.

The next picture is him on a boat, nice looking abs and bright green swim trunks that make him look ridiculously tan.  Okay, maybe I can get past the Mets part.  Perhaps Shea is really named for shea butter?  I can pretend.

I hear a ding and see a new window flashing on the bottom of my screen.  New Instant Message from Shea4576, it announces.

I look back at the profile.  Somehow I missed the username when I got distracted by the yummy photographs.

I click on the instant message, bringing it to the middle of my screen.

Shea4576: Well hello, beautiful. 

I smile and pour another glass of wine.  Maybe online dating has saved itself from being pulled off life support yet again.

BaseballAnnie: Hi yourself 

I wince.  BaseballAnnie?  I hadn’t even realized Aubrey’s horrific choice for my username.  She must have heard the term somewhere and thought it was a cute way to point out my love of baseball to potential suitors.  Wrong.

A “Baseball Annie” is a woman who’s a groupie of sorts when it comes to baseball players.  It’s from the movie Bull Durham, whose main character, Annie, has been known to sleep with just about every player who has come through town. 

Maybe he’s the only male in America who’s never seen the movie.

Shea4576: How are you this evening?

BaseballAnnie: Doing better now.  How are you?

Shea4576: Flattered.  The same.

BaseballAnnie: I was just reading your message and looking at your profile.

Shea4576:  And?  What did you think?

BaseballAnnie:  So far, so good 

Shea4576:  You’re the first girl I’ve ever talked to on here.

BaseballAnnie:  Nice.

Shea4576:  Did you like the pictures?

I consider my reply.  This guy sure seems to be fishing for compliments.  Oh well, he’s hot.  What the heck.

BaseballAnnie: They didn’t make me go blind or anything. 

For some reason, I think you can convey flirting with a smily face emoticon.  Not that I make a habit of flirting online.

Shea4576:  You’re not so bad yourself.  You have more pictures?

It occurs to me that my photos were all chosen by Aubrey and none are my favorites.  I never planned on staying on the site, so I didn’t really care.  Perhaps this is a good plan.  Show mediocre pictures first so they’re pleasantly surprised when they meet me.  Not that I’m going to meet anyone else.

BaseballAnnie: Sure, what’s your email?

Shea4576:  Shea4576@yahoo.com

I select a few of my favorites and send them on their way.  Now it’s my turn for some compliments.  I drain my glass of wine and wait for his response.

Shea4576: I like what I see.  So, am I good enough for you?

What kind of question is that?  Is he good enough for me?  I don’t know, he’s a Mets fan and a little self-conscious, so maybe not.  I decide to proceed with caution, note all the exit signs.

BaseballAnnie:  You’re definitely cute. 

Shea4576:  As cute as the guys you normally date?

Okay, this guy is starting to get on my nerves.  The dull ache in my head from trying to focus on the blurry words on the screen isn’t helping either.

BaseballAnnie:  I don’t really have a type or anything.  What’s your type?

Maybe I can still steer this ship back on course.  He really is cute, after all.

Shea4576:  You look like my type.  Would you date someone who looks like me?

Frowning at the screen, the dull ache is starting to scream.  That little voice in my head is getting louder too.  Run far!  Run fast!  Get the hell away from this loser!

With a twinge of regret, I click the red X at the top of the window.  Cute but crazy.  And not in an endearing way either.  Just plain bat shit crazy. 

I punch the power button, turning the computer off in frustration before realizing I should have cancelled the stupid subscription.  I consider turning it back on, but my big bed with the fluffy down comforter is calling my name.  First thing tomorrow, I’m getting off that damn site.